A Delhi court has done something both ordinary and extraordinary. It has simply applied the law. In acquitting Arvind Kejriwal in two cases arising out of alleged non-compliance with the Enforcement Directorate's summons in the excise policy matter, the court did not pronounce on guilt or innocence.

It did something more fundamental. It asked a simple question: were the summons validly served in accordance with the law? The answer, in the court's view, was a blatant no. "Mere non-appearance," the court held, does not amount to intentional disobedience.

The ED, it observed, cannot invent its own mode of service when the statute does not provide one. And when electronic evidence is relied upon, the requirements of the Evidence Act must be satisfied. Those deficiencies were not cosmetic, but fatal.

This is not a dramatic verdict. It is a procedural one. And that is precisely why it is devastating. Because the entire edifice of criminal prosecution rests on procedure. Criminal law is not theatre, and certainly not optics or prime-time indignation. It is a slow, exacting discipline. The state must prove service and intent, and the state must comply with evidentiary safeguards.

When it does not, the case collapses. That is not technicality, that is civilisation! Yet we live in a moment when the Prevention of Money Laundering Act has become the sharpest instrument in the political arsenal. The PMLA was enacted in 2002 to combat money laundering linked to serious crime.

It was not meant to be a political dragnet, nor was it designed as a pre-trial incarceration mechanism. And it was certainly not conceived as a device to ensure that the accusation itself becomes punishment.

The Enforcement Directorate's powers under the PMLA are formidable. Arrest without an ordinary FIR. Attachment of property. Stringent bail conditions that invert the presumption of innocence. A person can be deprived of liberty for months before the trial even begins. Conviction rates remain appallingly low. But incarceration rates before conviction tell a different story.

This is where the problem lies. Across the past decade, opposition leaders have found themselves at the receiving end of PMLA action in disproportionate numbers. Raids, arrests, seizures, relentless media briefings. The timing, surprisingly or not so surprisingly, often coincides with elections.

Allegations are amplified, images of sealed premises circulate, and the political message is delivered long before any court has had the chance to examine the evidence. Then, as in this instance, a court quietly asks whether the summons was even served in accordance with the law. If this were an isolated lapse, one might attribute it to bureaucratic incompetence. But the pattern is hard to ignore.

Procedural shortcuts, evidentiary deficiencies, aggressive arrest powers, and prolonged custody. And years later, little to show in terms of convictions proportionate to the spectacle. The damage, however, is already done.

In criminal jurisprudence, procedure is not ornamental. It is the shield between the individual and the state. The requirement of proper service of summons is not a simple clerical ritual. It ensures that the state cannot claim disobedience where notice itself was defective. The certification requirement for electronic evidence is not pedantry. It meant to guard against manipulation. And the presumption of innocence is not a slogan; it is the foundation of criminal law.

When agencies "devise their own way", as the court put it, they are not merely bending rules. They are eroding the very architecture that lends legitimacy to prosecution. Supporters of the ruling dispensation will argue that corruption must be fought ruthlessly! That powerful individuals must not hide behind procedural niceties, or that white-collar crime demands extraordinary measures!

No one disputes the necessity of combating corruption. But there is a constitutional method to do so. The moment the State convinces itself that ends justify means, the republic begins to hollow out from within.

There is another, more insidious consequence. When investigative agencies appear selective, when prosecutions coincide with political vulnerability, when opposition leaders languish in custody while defectors to the ruling party find relief, the perception of weaponisation takes root. Even if every case were legally sound, that perception would be corrosive.

When cases then falter on elementary procedural grounds, the perception hardens. Democracies do not die only through coups. They erode when institutions lose credibility. When law enforcement is seen as partisan. When arrest precedes investigation in spirit, if not in letter. And when pre-trial detention becomes the penalty.

Although calling this fascism would be rhetorically satisfying, the more precise description is perhaps more alarming; it is the normalisation of coercive processes as a political strategy. The judiciary, for all its own inconsistencies, remains one of the last arenas where procedure still matters.

This order is a reminder that criminal prosecution is not a press conference. If the ED wishes to summon an individual, it must comply with the CrPC. And if it relies on electronic communication, it must comply with the Evidence Act. If it alleges intentional disobedience, it must establish intent. That is not indulgence. That is the law!

The broader concern is systemic. Why do such procedural collapses occur repeatedly? Why are cases launched with maximal publicity but litigated with minimal rigour? Why does the state so often rely on incarceration first and evidentiary compliance later? One cannot escape the uncomfortable inference that the spectacle itself is part of the strategy. The arrest makes headlines, and the raid signals dominance. The opposition is on the defensive. And, years later, if a case falters, the political objective has already been achieved. Process as punishment.

This is not about Arvind Kejriwal alone. It is about precedent. Today, it may be a Chief Minister. Tomorrow, it may be a journalist, an industrialist, or a bureaucrat who refuses to align or a bureaucrat who resists pressure. When procedural safeguards are treated as irritants rather than imperatives, no one is secure.

The state possesses enormous power, while the citizen possesses only rights. Those rights are meaningful only so long as courts insist that procedure be followed scrupulously. The moment investigative agencies are permitted to improvise service, dilute evidentiary standards, and stretch custody as leverage, the balance shifts irreversibly.

The irony is stark. A government that speaks endlessly of the rule of law must now confront a court's finding that its premier financial investigation agency failed at the most elementary requirement: valid service of summons. If corruption is to be prosecuted credibly, it must be prosecuted competently. If the ED seeks moral authority, it must demonstrate procedural discipline.

And if the government truly believes in institutional strength, it must resist the temptation to convert investigative power into political theatre. The court has done its job and applied the statute. It has insisted that criminal law remain tethered to due process. The question is whether the message will be heard. Because when procedure becomes optional for the state, liberty becomes optional for the citizen. And that is a price no republic can afford to pay.

The author is a National Award winner for Best Narration and an independent political analyst. Views expressed are personal

© Mathrubhumi English